


MERCIFUL SIN

by skele-kiki (iwritetrollfics)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Handplates, Alternate Universe - Underfell, Bara Sans, Big Sans, Dark Sans, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/M, Poor Sans, Post-Barrier, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, Reader-Insert, Underfell Sans, Undertale Monsters on the Surface, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:02:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7909237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwritetrollfics/pseuds/skele-kiki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You had always needed one another. </p><p>You had just never realized how much.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>An Underfell/Handplates AU in which Sans lives with you on the surface, and things get ugly.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A short introduction to the gigantic chapters that will follow.

Living with Sans was nothing like you’d expected.

You’d extended him the roommate offer after he’d been deemed ineligible for free monster housing (something about him being more ‘ _capable of immediate employment’_ than other monsters, but to your ears sounded like _‘looks more human’_ than other monsters). He took you up on it, to your surprise and, if you were honest, delight. You’d expected a flippant rejection or a rude retort about how your _human_ landlord would take it if he swaggered into the office and asked for an application.

Turns out, he didn’t have to do even that.

You were the savior of monsterkind, the human that broke the Barrier and reunited the races. There were groups on both sides that hated you for it, or hated one another, or were just apprehensive about the races coming together again, but then there were those like your landlord. You’d gone to her before Sans and asked about an application, and she’d just handed you new lease papers.

“Just have them sign every page. I’ll have another key ready by tomorrow morning.” She didn’t ask any questions, and you knew it wasn’t because she wasn’t thinking about it.

Sans moved in the next afternoon.

Any possible apprehension about having Sans as a roommate didn’t set in until he’d shortcut-ed his things upstairs and dumped them in the middle of the cramped living room.  You were grabbing your purse off of the coffee table, running late for your first shift at the bar (turned out that breaking an all-powerful magical barrier and being the unifier of man- and monsterkind didn’t make you a fit for politics, but at least you had your bartending skills to fall back on), when he’d appeared in a red blur beside you and dropped a heavy-looking box of machine parts on the couch.

“What’s that?” you said.

“none a’ yer business,” he replied easily. He dusted his hands off, the bones clacking together, and looked down at you. His sockets sparked brightly in surprise.

“what the fuck is this?” he demanded, indicating your short skirt and low-cut tee. It suddenly occurred to you that he had never seen you in anything but jeans and a sweater. You smiled and pulled the purse up on your shoulder.

“I’m going to work.”

“ya workin’ a street corner?” he asked gruffly.

“None a’ yer business,” you said sweetly, imitating his accent, and moved around him.  Sans’ insults, teasing, and generally surly attitude had offended and intimidated you once, but you’d grown accustomed to all of it a long time ago. Mostly. You knew for a fact that he liked to press your buttons, but, to his obvious annoyance, it was getting harder for him to do.

You opened the door, then turned back to see him plop down on the couch and prop his sneakers on the coffee table. “Hey, don’t leave that stuff on the couch. I just got us cable, and I want to watch it when I get home.”

“whatever,” he said, folding his arms behind his skull and looking up at the ceiling. He was scowling more deeply than normal, like you’d pissed him off. That was easy enough to do.

You found yourself regretting your words immediately after you closed the door behind you; there was a loud _thump_ from the other side, like Sans had thrown something at it. He was a volatile guy, to put it delicately, but he’d changed so much since you’d first met him. It wasn’t his fault that his LV was so high. He’d been through _so much_. You both had, and much of it together.

That’s why you’d offered to let him move in. In the Underground, he’d been your first true enemy, and certainly the most dangerous. He’d kept you determined, at first by knocking you down, and later by picking you up. He’d been your constant, your anchor of sanity through all of the mind-numbing deaths and RESETS and altered timelines, and it was impossible to imagine any sort of life without him close to you somehow, even now that you were on the Surface again. You’d never say it aloud, because you knew that he’d call you a liar and deny it himself, but you thought of Sans as your dearest friend.

That’s why, you imagined, all of his boxes were tucked neatly in his room when you got back from work. 

* * *

 Sans spent little time in the apartment in the three days following his move-in. So little, in fact, that you _never_ saw him. That, as much as the carefulness with which he cleaned up after himself, shocked you. You had expected him to spend most of his time sleeping, or dirtying the place up with mustard stains, but he was like a ghost. The only evidence that he had ever been there was the cigarette smell that lingered behind him (Sans smoked like a freight train) and the closed door to his bedroom.

You and Sans had spent so much time in the Underground together that _any_ time apart felt strange. You had to work most days, and there was nothing you could do about that, but why was he never at the apartment when you got back? He replied to your texts almost immediately, but he was always vague, and you never pressed because you didn’t want to seem needy. He was getting along without you just fine, apparently, and you needed to do the same. You tried, but an ache started up in your chest every time you thought about him.

Was he really just fine? Sans worried you on that front. It wasn’t his fault, you would _never blame him_ for it, but his LV was so _high_ , and sometimes he had trouble keeping it under control. And having all of those RESETS and timelines crammed in his head didn’t help. It certainly fucked with you, and you hadn’t experienced anywhere near as much as Sans had. His resilience astounded you, but you knew that, behind his tough guy demeanor and cruel words, he was heavily damaged and tired.

On the fourth day, you lost your resolve to let things be, and you called him on your work break.

Part of you didn’t expect him to answer, but the line picked up before the second ring.

“wazzup, baby?” You could tell he was happy, even with his deep and dark voice. Loud music thumped in the background.

“Are you okay?” you said bluntly. Sans was quiet for a long moment, and all you heard was the music. Then the sound started to pivot, like he was moving around, and you heard the muffled slam of a door. The music died, and there was the crackle of wind in the phone’s speaker.

“yer,” Sans said at last. His voice carried that final tone that you knew offered no room for prodding, but you couldn’t leave it there. You were about to tell him that you thought he was lying, that you wanted to know what he was out doing all time, that it wasn’t fair that he kept leaving you alone, that you _missed him,_ when he said, “ya still in the back?”

You paused. “In the back?”

“yer. come outside.”

You frowned, but got up from the stained, rickety table and pushed the breakroom door open. Your eyes scanned the loud bar for a tall, broad-shouldered figure in a fur-trimmed jacket, but there were too many people and it was too filled with smoke to see well.

“ner,” Sans said, and you realized that he hadn’t hung up. _“outside,_ baby.”

You moved through the dim hallway, sidling past a couple groping one another against the wall, and pushed the back door open.

Sans was standing in the parking-lot.

You didn’t think it through, but how could you? Your shoes slapped across the pavement as you ran to him and threw your arms around his middle, burying yourself in his shirt despite the way he tensed. The magic giving his body form beyond his bones was warm, and felt like flesh beneath his clothes. After a moment of silence between you both, filled with dread from you that he would push you away, he laughed. The rumbling, baritone sound was the most comforting thing you’d ever heard in your life, and you relished the way it reverberated through you. The ache in your chest throbbed and throbbed.

“heh heh. wow. i didn’t realize ya’d been so _bonely_ without me.” He said it with a chuckle, but there was an uneasy edge to his voice. “uh… where the hell’s yer jacket?”

A sob escaped your lips. You felt Sans tense hard, like he’d been struck, and then rough phalanges were gripping your chin and making you look upward. The red light of his pupils cast a glow around his skull that sharpened his edges and made him look savage.

“what the fuck?” he demanded. You looked up at him through wet lashes, the tears streaking down your face now. Until that moment, you’d had no idea how much stress, how much _anxiety_ had been bottling itself up since Sans had seemingly begun avoiding you.

And looking up at him now, seeing the familiar glow of red, inhaling the dark and spicy smell of his cologne and cigarettes, hearing his deep voice, feeling his magic’s heat and the sheer power of his presence… This was right.

This was your constant.

Relief turned your knees to water, and Sans swore. He caught you before you hit the pavement, grabbing you hard by the waist. His phalanges were sharp, and you’d certainly have bruises, but you didn’t care. You pulled yourself into him, breathing him in and crying against his shirt. He let you, at least for a moment, and you were so grateful. _So grateful._ The ache faded, and so did the near-hysteria that had gripped you. Sans finally pulled you back to look at you again. One of his sockets was black, and a threatening discharge of magic bled from the other in wild sparks. He was breathing hard.

“what the _fuck_ , baby?” he said again, and even though the magic gave his agitation away and the way he phrased it was harsh, his tone was so _gentle_. You couldn’t remember when he’d ever talked to you like that, even when you were dying and waiting for a terrible and inevitable RESET. The ache throbbed to life in your chest again, and you pressed back into his shirt. It stopped almost immediately.

“Don’t leave me,” you said, and it came out choked and desperate. Sans was quiet again (god _damn_ his silences), and you winced to imagine what he was thinking of you. This was weak. This was everything he’d told you he hated. This was disgusting.

Cold wind bit at your arms and legs.

“i won’t.”

You shivered.

“i _didn’t_.”

You heard the defensive note in his voice, though to anyone else it might have just sounded cold.

“ya wanna know what i’ve been doin’?” Sans took hold of your face roughly and made you look up at him again. Both of his pupils had returned. “i’ve been lookin’ all over for this fuckin’ shithole,” he said. “took me four fuckin’ days. d’ya have any idea how many bars this city’s got?” You shook your head, your chin still in his grip, and he continued. “i didn’t either. and i can’t shortcut anywhere in public, ‘cuz of the stupid-ass laws, so findin’ this place _took me a while.”_

You didn’t say, _‘Why didn’t you just ask me where I worked?’_ Sans’ pride wouldn’t let him answer that, and that was answer enough. So, instead, you said, “Why’d you want to find it?”

Sans shifted a little, and you realized that you were still pressed to him and his hands were resting on your waist. He continued the conversation as though he didn’t notice any of this.

“’cuz i need work,” he said. His gold-plated tooth glinted down at you with his grin. “and _tibia_ honest, i knew ya couldn’t stand bein’ without me.” You weren’t sure if that last part was a pun since he was still supporting your weight, but you didn’t get a chance to dwell on it.

“Fuck you, freak!”

Sans stiffened, and you turned to see a man across the parking-lot. He was standing with his legs splayed apart, like he was drunk and couldn’t keep his balance otherwise. He seemed to see you huddled meekly in Sans’ grip, and he pointed accusingly at you.

“Freak- _fucker!”_ he shouted.

Sans let go of you to take a step toward the man, and you felt a warning wave of heat roll off of him. “beat it, shithead,” he roared back, “before i come over there an’ break yer fuckin’ neck!” The man screamed something, an unintelligible jumble of threats and curses, but your attention was on Sans as he started to take another step. You grabbed at his jacket sleeve and pulled.

 _"Don't_ ,” you pleaded. “Please, don't. You'll get in trouble.” Sans stopped to glare at you, his socket blazing with furious energy. You watched his expression twist from anger to frustration to anger again. He knew as well as you did that the law wouldn’t lean in his favor if he hurt (or, god forbid, _killed_ ) a human in a fight. “Please,” you said again.

The man jeered at you both as Sans turned his back on him and took hold of your arm to lead you back into the building. You could feel him shaking with rage, and your chest throbbed sharply. You pressed a hand to the spot and held it.

Sans followed behind you into the smoke and music of the bar, and so you didn’t see the troubled way he stared at you as you held your chest, or the anxious energy that was bleeding out of his socket.


	2. Chapter 2

Sans started work with you the next night, and you couldn’t help but be giddy about having him close again.

He’d shortcut-ted you both home last night, right into the living room, and something about seeing him in the apartment again, _your_ apartment, drove home the fact that he had never intended to abandon you. You had hugged him again, like in the parking lot, but this time he had disentangled himself and told you to quit being clingy or he’d skip work tomorrow. You didn’t believe a word of it, and you were too happy at having him close again to feel any sting from his words. You tried to sit with him when he sank onto the couch and lit a cigarette, but he blew smoke at you and spread his legs wide apart, leaving you no couch-space.

 _‘i said_ “beat it.”’

You went to bed happily.

Sans hadn’t moved from the couch when you woke the next day. He was still asleep, snoring softly with his skull resting against the wall, and there was a bowl _full_ of cigarette butts on the cushion beside him. You stared at it and wondered how late he’d been awake.

He stirred a little when you started making breakfast, but he made no move to get up. It wasn’t until you brought him a plate of eggs and a new mustard bottle that he finally opened his sockets to blink sleepily at you, the red pupils blurry and unfocused. He scowled as though he were about to tell you off for waking him up, but then his gaze dropped to the food. He took the plate wordlessly, ate like he was starving, smoked another cigarette, and went back to sleep.

You got ready to leave for work around the usual time, preparing for a half-hour bus ride and a few blocks of walking. Sans was _still_ on the couch when you walked back into the living room, ready to go. The TV was on now, but he had his sockets closed and his arms folded behind his skull.

“Hey, _lazybones,”_ you said, and he opened a socket at you. His pupil flicked down your form, and you expected another chastisement on your outfit. “We gotta go. Mick doesn't play about clocking in.”

Sans looked back up at your face, then closed his socket. “we ain’t gonna be late, sweetheart,” he said.

“We will be if we don’t leave in five minutes.”

“ner. i’ll shortcut us.”

You frowned at him. “You can’t do that. If someone sees, you’ll get in trouble.”

“yer, yer.”

“Sans, I mean _it._ It’s not just a fine; it’s a _strike._ They’re talking about deportation for monsters that break the law.” You imagined Sans being sent back to the Underground, and a sharpness panged in your chest. With all of the new laws, it would be so difficult to see him. You weren’t sure if Asgore would make an exception for you, even after all you’d done, and you saw yourself crying and holding Sans’ phalanges through one of the magical fences that had been erected around the Underground’s entrance.

Another painful throb.

Sans grimaced at your lecture, and he held up his hands as though trying to stop your train of thought. “all right, all right, baby,” he said. “i _get it.”_

“Okay.”

“we won’t shortcut-”

“Good.”

“-where anyone can see us.”

“Sans!”

He stood up and stalked for the bathroom, patting around his jacket as he went. “well, lookit that,” he said sourly. “ya stress me out before the first day a’ work, an’ i’m outta’ fuckin’ cigarettes.”

“I’m stressing _you_ out?”

Sans gave you a hard look and slammed the bathroom door shut. You heard the shower crank on.

You could have left without him, but you didn’t. Instead, you cleaned up his plate, tossed the empty mustard bottle into the trashcan, washed out the cereal bowl he’d decided was an ash tray, and then perched yourself nervously on the arm of the couch. Nothing good was on TV (the cable guy had given you the wrong damn package, because you should have had a hundred channels, not _ten_ ), and you ended up watching the time tick by on your phone. Fifteen minutes until your shift. The shower shut off, and then you heard bumping around in Sans’ room. The lazy bastard had taken a shortcut in the apartment.

Probably trying to prove a point.

You were too anxious to sit down anymore, and there was ash all over the carpet, so you went to grab the vacuum. You didn’t want to lose your job. It wasn’t a great one; the hours were long, the “uniform” was uncomfortable, and the clientele was pretty sketchy. Then again, _Mick’s_ was one of the sketchiest bars in town. You definitely didn’t want to stay there for long, but right now you had to make it work.

You moved the coffee table to vacuum underneath it, and found a lone cigarette. It must have rolled off the table last night while Sans was dozing and ashing all over the place. You glanced toward his room. He’d want to smoke it before you left, if he saw it, and you couldn’t have that. He’d make you both late, even with the shortcut.

Sans’ closet door slammed, and you went to tuck the cigarette into your jeans, but you were wearing your pocket-less skirt. _Oh, shit._ Sans’ bedroom door opened.

You stuffed the cigarette into your bra.

“can’t be _bone-idle_ fer a second, can ya?” Sans was wearing a clean (or maybe just different) jacket that read “F U C K  Y O U” across the front. His face was set in its usual scowl, but the lights of his pupils were burning more hotly than normal. “c’mere, we’re gonna be late.”

You grabbed up your purse and stepped close to him for the shortcut. He always put an arm securely around your shoulders and had you put an arm across his back, just in case something _‘funny’_ happened. Sans had explained that he’d dropped things before, during the in-betweens of the shortcuts, and he never saw them again. A to-go bag from Grillby’s, a particularly mustard-slick hotdog, a monster that had pissed him off badly enough once… all gone. He had an idea of what happened to them, but when you asked about that he’d just winked wickedly and said, _‘ya don’t wanna know, sugar.’_

That scared the shit out of you more than anything.

Sans held an arm out, but you hesitated. You’d shortcut-ed with him so many times, but the strange feeling that came with it, the _wrongness_ of the black space in the in-between, never got any easier to process.

You would have much rather taken the bus.

Sans’ sockets blazed with obvious irritation, and you expected him to lose his patience and grab you around the shoulders. He’d done that once or twice. What you didn’t expect was for him to snatch you by the waist and jam you against him.

“deep breath, baby,” he growled.

You sucked a desperate breath, fighting the protest that had been halfway out of your mouth, and buried your face in his chest.

The world went quiet. If you opened your eyes, you would see nothing but blackness. The emptiness of the in-between. You could feel a dull thumping against your face, through Sans’ chest, and when you turned your head to press your ear to it you could hear the rhythmic beating.

Sans’ SOUL.

Despite your fear, an airiness lit your chest at the sound. You thought the beating grew louder, then, _fiercer,_ but then the noise of the city was drowning it out. Sans let go of you. You were standing in the alley between _Mick’s_ and the next building.

Sans turned away and went for the back door, and you followed. Despite the way he seemed to purposely let the door fall shut on you, you grabbed hold of his jacket and stopped him in the cramped hallway before the bar. Rock music reverberated through the walls, and so you had to bring your mouth up next to his skull for him to hear you.

“Hey,” you said. “Found this.” Sans stared at you as you reached into your shirt and withdrew the cigarette. It was a little smooshed, but not too much. He took it carefully from you, almost reverently, and you couldn’t help but laugh at the way his pupils shrunk to pinpricks. “I thought you said it wasn’t an addiction,” you teased.

Sans put the cigarette between his jagged teeth, but didn’t light it immediately. His expression turned stormy. “ya fuckin’ _hid it_ ,” he accused, and you held your hands up in surrender.

“See you in a minute,” you said cheerily, and you left him in the hall to put your purse away.

* * *

Sans crossed his arms and leaned against the wall beside the door front, watching the room. The bar was crowded as hell. It wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet, and he’d already tossed out two brawlers, pulled a creep away from a woman who was trying to drown her sorrows by herself, and scared the piss out of a group of underage college girls that had tried to sneak in through the back door.

But he wasn’t really busy, and he hadn’t expected to be; not in a room full of humans that were a head and a half shorter than him, and half his width.

Mick, the manager with the bad comb-over who’d hired him on the spot, had been giddy with delight when Sans had asked if he was looking for a bouncer, and Sans could see why; in the one hour he’d had spent at the bar last night, skulking at a back table with his hood up and looking for you, it was clear that the human was having trouble keeping the rough crowd under control by himself.

Not so much now that Sans was here. After he’d frisbee-d the brawlers out the front door (without his magic, though his socket was bright and crackling with energy), Mick had sent a shot of fierce liquor his way.

“Thank you, and please stay,” that shot said to Sans. He’d downed it and savored the burn. He might stay. The job was a perfect fit, really. Most of it just entailed standing around and looking dangerous, and he did both of those things fairly naturally. But that wasn’t why he was here.

He stopped scanning the room to watch you take another drink order and run to the register. The counter was packed with people, all laughing and shouting and tossing back shots. You had only one other bartender helping you, and he knew you were stressed, but the tips would be good tonight between just the two of you.

You looked good tonight.

Sans rolled his tongue over the cigarette, still trying to draw the taste of you from it. He got nothing but soggy paper and tobacco.

The thing had still been fucking _warm_ when you’d handed it over.

Did you have you any idea what was happening? No. Absolutely not. You were the fucking babe-o-the-woods with him; painfully PURE and innocent, the same as you’d been since the day he met you.

Such a contrast against his own SIN.

He twitched at the crawling feeling up his spine, and he focused on you to banish it. You were laughing now at something the other bartender had said, shaking up a drink all the while. Smoke hazed the air around you, and the neon lighting of the liquor shelves cast a harsh, strange glow around your form. In your short skirt and low-cut shirt, you looked a far cry from his babe-o-the-woods. You didn’t belong in that outfit. You didn’t belong in this bar, with these people. And yet, knowing how PURE you were and seeing you like this, surrounded by filth and temptation and SIN, it gave him such a fucking hard-on.

 _Fuck_ , he was a real piece of _shit_.

But he’d known that for a long time. He _owned that_. And when you’d come along in the beginning, all MERCY and LOVE, not _LOVE_ , you simultaneously managed to make him feel so much worse (and better) about himself. You were so fucking wonderful, so goddamn perfect, and he was grateful, so _fucking grateful_ , for every second of your time that you gave him, but how _dare_ you sink to his level? He was trash, and he didn’t deserve you, and you should have the brains to fucking realize that.

The conflicting feelings still made his SOUL churn when it wasn’t already throbbing and aching for you.

As if on cue, he felt a hot stabbing in his ribcage. He winced when he saw you spill some beer on the counter, pressing a hand to your chest.

He’d tried so hard to keep this from happening. He’d fought it until he thought the sensation would kill him, because it was just wrong, just disgustingly _sinful._ But he’d never had much control over his life from the start, so why had he been surprised?

Your SOULS had BONDED.

Sans knew that you weren’t aware of it, though now you clearly felt the pains that he’d felt and disguised for so long, long before you’d left the Underground. _Fuck,_ long before you’d shown Asgore how fucking MERCIFUL you were.

And he knew you wouldn’t understand the implications of such a thing as SOUL-bonding, because you were human, but he sure as hell did. It meant that whatever you felt, he felt. Whatever he felt, you felt. Pain, anxiety, sorrow, happiness...

 _pleasure,_ his sinful mind wheedled.

_heh._

He’d been wanting to share that with you for a _long time._

But this new development gave him no right to push for more than he already had. He didn’t deserve _this_ , and he didn’t deserve anything _more._ You were friends (and damn it _,_ he _hated_ that word, though neither of you had ever used it), and that was it. You both had been through a lot. Your SOULS had BONDED because they had suffered so greatly together, and that was it. You were BONDED purely out of suffering, and how fucking sick was that?

He wouldn’t dare push for anything more, no matter what the sinful part of him wanted. He was already a stain on your SOUL, and he would take it back if he could ( _no,_ he thought frantically. _no, i wouldn’t.)_ , but what was done was done. Your BOND could be strained and thinned, but it could never be broken. Not unless one of you died or dusted.

And he wasn’t about to let either one fucking happen.

He’d thought to tell you about all of this last night in the parking lot. He’d asked you what was wrong, even though he knew _exactly_ what from the moment you threw yourself at him. The whole thing had been terrible, because he knew that you were hurting, but it had also been _fucking_ _exhilarating._ The awestruck, adoring way you’d looked at him. The way you’d clung to him like he was your last anchor to Earth. The way you’d pressed into him, shamelessly breathing him in.

_The way he’d been able to touch you._

But then everything had been ruined. His SOUL had already been whipped into a frenzy by your touch and desperation for him, and he’d nearly lost his goddamn _mind_ when that shithead decided to  **i n t e r r u p t .**

Sans was still boiling over that. He’d kept a sharp socket out for that guy all night. What he had planned for the human would certainly upset you, but there was no reason for you to know about it. You could keep playing the babe-o-the-woods a while longer, because as infuriating as it could be…

He liked you like that.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully, aside from a long-time patron trying to cause a ruckus with Mick for hiring a monster. Sans didn’t think that the guy had meant for _him_ to hear, but Sans certainly did. He made it a point to grin jaggedly and hold the door open for the human when he left. The guy ducked his head like he’d been afraid Sans would bite him.

 _i fuckin’ might, ya sonuvvabitch,_ Sans had thought.

“Oh, my _god.”_

He locked the door after the last patron staggered out, and looked over at you. You were laughing, your face buried in your arms on the countertop. The other bartender was laughing, too. He was an alright-looking guy, about your age. Short, though.

“Welcome back to the biz,” he said teasingly, and gave you a couple of pats on the back. You grinned at him.

Sans felt heat fizzle behind his ribs.

Mick emerged from the back office and went to count the register while you and the other bartender cleaned. He noticed Sans leaning against the wall, and told him he could head home.

“ner,” Sans said. “i’m sweetheart’s ride.” He nodded toward you as he said it, but you hadn’t heard him; you were too busy letting the other bartender stack glasses on a tray that you held, the both of you giggling about something.

When you went into the back to put everything into the dishwasher, the other bartender glanced over. His smile faltered when he met Sans’ gaze, and he grabbed up a rag to wipe at the countertop. Sans rolled the cigarette between his teeth, satisfied at the way the kid wouldn’t look up at him again.

_that’s right, ya lil’ shit._

Sans hung around by the door as the place was wiped, swept, and locked down. He could have stepped outside and shortcut-ed to the apartment, splayed out on the couch and watched some TV until you were done, but he didn’t. He liked how you threw the occasional look his way while you worked, and grinned when he winked back. You were so happy to have him here. Your SOUL was thrumming.

So was his.

When you finally went to grab your purse from the breakroom, throwing him one last look and lifting a finger to say, “Be right back,” Mick called to him. Sans shoved his hands in his pockets and went over.

“Hey, man,” Mick said. “Tonight was, uh… Well. Tonight went fuckin’ fantastic.”

“yer?”

“Yeah. It’s good to have you.” The man’s smile flickered, and he suddenly looked a little uncomfortable. “Look, I know you probably heard that shit earlier. I told him he ain’t welcome back-”

“s’fine.”

“It’s really not. I don’t _want_ that shit in here. I mean, I don’t want anybody givin’ _you_ trouble, ‘cuz that’s fucked up, but…” he paused to look toward the hall that led to the breakroom, and then he leaned over the bar to speak a little softer. “… that could mean some trouble for her, too, you know? I don’t want that.”

Sans regarded the human, with his bad hair and yellow teeth. He was smarter than he looked, and Sans didn’t like that. He hadn’t told the man anything about you, and, for all Mick knew, he had just offered you a ride home this once. Hell, you’d even come into the bar separately, because he’d had to take a few minutes to steady himself after you’d reached into your shirt and given him that _warm cigarette._

Sans rolled the thing between his teeth.

“ain’t gonna’ be any trouble,” he said flatly, and Mick stared at him for a moment before giving a slow couple of nods.

“I believe it.”

You popped out of the hallway to hold up a finger again, and Sans turned his scowl on you. “Sorry, I gotta pee! Just one more minute.” You disappeared again, and Mick chuckled.

“Hey, man.” Sans looked back to see the man push a fair-sized bottle across the countertop. “Welcome back. You know,” he gestured around vaguely, “up here. Not everybody remembers the stories, but I do.”

Sans took the bottle and hefted it. It was liquor. “huh.” He cut his sockets at the man. “this shit comin’ outta’ my paycheck?”

“Nah. It’s a gift.”

“huh.” Sans rolled the cigarette again, thoughtfully this time. “well, ain’t that nice?”

You came out of the back hall, jacket on and purse over your shoulder. The bartender kid was with you.

“Night, Mick,” you said alongside him, and the man waved back. The kid left out the back, and you waited for Sans. He followed you out the backdoor and into the bite of the wind.

“What’s that?” you said, just noticing the bottle he carried. He tucked it into his jacket.

“what’s what?”

“Did Mick give you that?”

“none a’ yer business.”

“You’re pouring me a shot when we get home.”

Sans was walking with you toward the alley, out of sight for the shortcut, when a voice made him scowl.

“You guys need a ride home?” It was the kid. He had pulled up beside you both and was leaning out of a beat-up van with duct-tape covering one of the windows. Like hell you were getting in that _._ Sans opened his mouth to tell the little shit to get lost, but you were faster.

“No, thanks, Jake! See you Monday!”

The kid, _Jake,_ waved cheerfully at you. When his gaze went to Sans, though, all he offered was a tight smile. Sans put an arm around your shoulders, holding eye contact, and led you toward the alley.

“I’m starving,” you said as the little shit’s van pulled away. “Can we grab some burgers on the way home?”

“i dunno know. _can_ we?”

“Saaaaaaaans,” you groaned in mock exasperation. His insides sparked hotly, imagining that same sound in a different context, and he winced at the effort it took to keep his wretched, neglected SOUL from reaching out and transmitting that need to yours.

“okay, _okay,”_ he growled, his SOUL simmering painfully under his reprimand. God, it _hurt._ “but yer buyin’.”

You laughed and hugged him playfully, your little arms squeezing around his thick ribs. “When am I not?”

He shortcut-ed you back to the apartment.

“Wait,” you said, letting go of him slightly to look around the living room. You looked confused and disappointed. “What about burgers?”

“be right back.” You made a surprised sound as Sans simultaneously jerked the purse off of your shoulder, disentangled himself from you, and took a big step back. Your voice clipped as he shortcut-ed away.

“Sa-”

He appeared back in the alley beside the bar. It was the first place his jumbled mind thought to go.

And then he _let go._

Anger at that fucking kid for putting his hands on you; lust because _he_ was the one who wanted to put _his_ hands on you; and _pain_ because you were so PURE and he was so full of SIN that it was _disgusting…_ He let his SOUL blaze with all of it.

For nearly a full minute, the alleyway glared a fierce red. His magic tore away from him and did as it wanted, coursing over everything like blood, setting windows to rattling and stray cats to running. The concrete split around his sneakers.

And then it was over.

Sans slouched against the brick behind him, panting. The relief was almost enough to knock him to his knees, and he hoped to whatever asshole god who’d cursed him with life that you were far enough away to not feel any of it.

He pushed himself upright, and realized that a couple of cars left in _Mick’s’_ parking lot, and a few parked along the street in front of the bar, were blaring their alarms.  Countless dogs barked and howled wildly in the distance.

He needed to get out of here.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, then shortcut-ed again, this time to behind that burger joint you’d taken him to his first day on the Surface. It had tasted like shit, and he’d told you so, but Grillby hadn’t set up here yet. Sans wasn’t sure if he would.

The place was open all hours, but it didn’t seem like it when Sans pulled his hood over his face and stalked to the order window. He banged loudly on the glass and stepped back out of the glow from inside. He just wanted to go home and sleep now.

It had been a _long_ fucking night.

“Jesus, dude, hold on,” a muffled voice said. A pimply teen in a paper hat jerked the window open and squinted at him through the dark. “What do you want?”

“the fuck ya think i want, ya little prick? two burgers and two fries.”

The kid slammed the window shut, and for a minute Sans thought that he wasn’t going to make the order, but then he saw him pull on some gloves and go over to the fryer. He mouthed angrily all the while, but Sans was too tired to do anything about it. Prick had no idea how lucky he was.

Sans pulled some cash out of your purse, then jammed the thing back into his jacket before the fry-cook could see. There was a low roaring sound from above.

He turned his face up to the sky, spotting a red, blinking dot in the blackness. A plane. A _big_ one, much bigger than any he’d ever seen in the Underground. His gaze followed it, or rather, its flashing light. There were hardly any stars around it that he could see; the city was too bright, too harsh. It drowned them all out.

He wondered what it would be like to live somewhere else. The mountains maybe, close to the stars and away from everything else. He immediately thought of you. Would you come with him?

“Hello? I said, ‘It’s _$9.49.’”_

Sans turned back to the teen and paid him, pushing the bills across the little countertop in front of the window while the kid was bagging up the food. When he took the money, Sans reached through the window and grabbed the paper bags.

“Hey! What about-?”

“keep the change,” Sans said. “get ya’self some new face-wash.” The kid rammed the window shut so hard that bounced back open and he had to close it again. After he’d locked it tight, given him the finger, and walked away, Sans grabbed the mustard bottle off of the counter and shortcut-ed back to the apartment.

You were sprawled on the couch in a pair of sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. When he appeared beside you, you started and dropped the TV remote.

“Hey, weirdo,” you said as he plopped the greasy bags on the coffee table. “You mad at me or something?”

“ner.” Sans moved to sit on the couch, and you scooted quickly to make room for him. "just didn't want you spendin' an hour lookin' at the damn menu."

“Excuse me; it was _one time,_ and I'd never eaten sushi before. Got my purse?”

“yer.” He reached to pull the purse out of his jacket, and his phalanges knocked against something hard.

Your eyes lit up when he pulled the bottle of liquor out of his jacket. Before he could say anything, you jumped up and skipped to the kitchen.

His SOUL pulsed with your excitement, but there was excitement of his own stoking up in there, too, eager to see how you’d handle hard liquor. Eager to see what you’d do _afterward,_ all alone with him and a good buzz…

This was a bad idea.

“didn’t ya get enough of it earlier?” he said, and it came out coarse with the anxiety he was fighting to suppress. You put two glasses down on the coffee table and sat beside him, close so that you could take the bottle. Your leg rested against him. His SOUL stretched for yours, and he had to lash out quickly to stop it.

This was a _terrible_ idea.

“I don’t drink at work, thank you.” You poured a healthy amount into both glasses, the amber liquid sloshing around like the sinful thoughts inside his skull. “Unlike _some_ body.”

He should have said no. He should have told you to drink by yourself. He should have gone to his room and slammed the door.

Instead, he took the glass when you handed it to him.

He smiled back crookedly when you grinned and clinked your glass to his.

He let you fill his glass again after he’d drained it.

He refilled yours.

And then he refilled it again.

You talked most of the time, between bites of food, and then between sips of drink. You talked about work, about how strange it was to be on the Surface again, about how you missed parts of the Underground. Sans responded sometimes with things like “yer” and “me, too, babygirl,” but mostly he was quiet. He watched you while you talked, though you didn’t notice. Increasingly often, he found his gaze settling on the black band of your underwear that had slid into view when you’d stretched out beside him, or the swells of your breasts that your thin sleep-shirt so easily contoured. That sweater had kept so much hidden.

His mouth watered.

“Sans?”

He blinked. “yer?”

You were looking at him. “Did you hear me? I asked about Papyrus.”

“what about him?”

“When’s the last time you talked?”

Sans thought about that, and found that he wasn’t sure. Papyrus was still Underground, and Sans was pretty sure he didn’t plan on coming up; despite having met _you_ , having seen how PURE you were and how willingly you stepped forward to break the Barrier when you could have just as easily left them all to rot in the dark, Papyrus still didn’t trust you, and he still held a deep prejudice against humankind.

Sans understood that last part; most of the humans he’d met on the Surface were piles of shit. Still, it made his magic boil that Papyrus treated you like one of _them._

You snorted a laugh, and Sans realized he’d been staring blankly into his near-empty glass. “Wow. So, he doesn’t know you’re living with me, huh? Yikes.”

“none a' his business who i’m livin’ with,” Sans muttered. He stared into his glass again, then jumped when you promptly snuggle yourself into his side. Your SOUL hummed happily as you pressed into his jacket, makeup a little smeared and hair askew.

“Let’s watch TV,” you said, your voice carrying the slightest slur. Sans took a moment to steady his SOUL, which was spinning wildly and ecstatically inside his ribs. Then he slowly, _carefully_ , allowed his arm to rest on the couch behind you. He took a deep breath.

“alright, sweetheart...”


End file.
